Photographs & Gasoline
by InkedRose
Summary: Lexanna Raen, traumatized and haunted after watching her father's murder sets off on the road to find the creature that was responsible. Along her journey, she meets two brothers by the names of Sam and Dean Winchester. They become entangled in a web of the supernatural evil, emotional distress and love.
1. The Hunter

_I remember a house; a large, elegantly beautiful Victorian home which was painted white with navy as an accent; the shutters on either side of each window were navy and the door was the same shade of blue. Paver cobblestone was laid down by the man of the family in order to form both a walkway and driveway. There was a garden that that followed the perimeter of the house – it was beautifully colored with various types of flowers including; white roses, jet-fire daffodils, red amaryllis', pink orchids, sunflowers, violet tulips and many more. There was never a moment when the garden looked to be withering – it had always been well-tended. The grass never browned and the shrubs were always cut to such a precision that; if a neighbor passed by; they would stop, act in a double-take and simply stare. It truly looked as though it had come straight from a real estate brochure. For many years, a black Chevrolet truck sat in the driveway with a white Mitsubishi at its side._

_The vehicles remained together for as long as any of the neighbors could remember – it was until October of 1983 did that white Mitsubishi vanish. It was never to be seen again._

_The family that lived in that picture perfect home was known as the Raen's; of Lawrence, Kansas. Vercillo Raen and his wife were happily married, and together, they had two children – a boy, Karma; and a girl, Acelyn. A few years after Acelyn was born; Mrs. Raen became pregnant with their third child, a girl; Lexanna. Before the birth of their second girl, the Raen family was the gossip of the neighborhood. They were as perfect as their home and, to the neighbors, it all seemed very cliché. They wondered how a man and woman could be so undoubtedly happy with one another – even after having children. The statistics always proved against it, but the couple prevailed. The neighborhood wished for their life, willed for their life – were even_jealous_ of their life._

_And the family _was _utterly perfect until a time after Lexanna was born and the Mitsubishi disappeared. Once the third child was introduced into the world, the streets became infinitely quieter. There was no longer gossip, no longer jealousy. For all intents and purposes, the Raen's had disappeared. They no longer existed, for they were hardly ever seen after October 21__st__, 1983. The black Chevrolet sat in the driveway less and less – it became memorable for being empty and the children were often left alone._

_On occasion, one of the children would accompany his or her father while he disappeared – and no one knew where they were going. If Karma was gone, Acelyn would look after Lexanna. If Acelyn was gone, Karma would look after Lexanna. If Lexanna was gone, the oldest two would simply look after one another. It became habitual for them – they adjusted to their life of constant loneliness, constant wondering of where there father had gone and whether or not he would come home, but he always did. They were still the most important people in his life, even if his wife was gone._

_It was once filled with joyful memories and cheerful laughter._

_Now I see a tilting home, withering with age and chipping paint. The windows that were once clear and wide are now broken and absent. The front door has been kicked in and the furniture that you can see through the glassless panes are turned over and destroyed. There are long and wide claw marks along the walls on the inside of the home, destroying the smooth coloring that had previously been there. The black Chevrolet that was often gone from the driveway now sits quietly, without use and rusted from the rain. The tires are flat and dirt has corroded the blackness away. The lawn has browned and the swings on the set in the backyard have broken from their chains and rusted to the point where the use of it is no longer possible. As I stand on the sidewalk, watching the house with an aimless stare; a group of children pass by. The voice of a young girl brings me to vague awareness. "The house has been abandoned for years," she explains to her friends. "The dad went crazy one night on Halloween and killed two of his kids. I guess only the youngest got away safely. Maybe that's her. She's standing there, staring at the house. It's said that the ghost of the father still haunts the house, but no one can go in because an old, evil witch lives there now, and she curses you if you try to go inside."_

_The story of the 'Hallmark Home' is now but a mere and vague memory. Since it decayed, the children of Lawrence, Kansas have turned this disheveled sight into a ghost story for their own pleasure. The desolation of the home has become their tale to tell. _

_Every city needs to have some history, whether it is fictitious rather than factual, and the parents do not disallow the rumors. Even those who know the most rudimentary version of what happened to the home will do nothing to correct the children, even if they pass by, speaking of the newfound legend while they sit on their porches. Only I know the truth of the home, and the truth of what caused this once picture perfect home to become so destroyed and so dreary._

* * *

As a car whips down the street, rainwater from the flooding streets fling against my back when the tires drive through it. I reluctantly succumb back to reality; soaked, shivering and ghostly pale. My hair hangs in front of my face in raggedy strands, dripping because of the rain that is falling from above. I can see droplets of the precipitation falling from my eyelashes. I almost wish I would freeze in this spot, never to move again, simply looking upon the ghosts of my past.

I feel myself fading from reality and immediately jerk my body in order to keep myself present with the rest of the world. My movement was so sudden that I drop down to my knees and completely overlook the pain shooting up my legs from the impact with the concrete. For the next few minutes, I continue kneeling on the ground, exhaling hard and inhaling shallowly. As I pant, my warm breaths hit against the cold air; causing puffs of smoke to escape through my lips.

My heart leaps into my throat when a drawn out honking of a car horn comes from behind me. Bringing myself to my feet, I turn slowly to see an old Cadillac resting by the curb and an elderly woman leaning over the passenger seat, staring at me. "Do you need help young lady?" she asks, but I do not answer. There is silence between us for long, dragging moments before the woman turns her engine off. "Do you know about that house?" she asks, shifting so she can see it past my body blocking her view, "It's condemned, you know. You're not supposed to go inside."

"I wasn't going to," I answer, my voice sounding monotonous and hoarse. My vocal cords have gone unused for a substantial amount of time.

Confusion strikes into her expression briefly before she softens once more, "Why are you staring at it?"

"I don't know," I answer truthfully.

There is silence once more, and then she turns the Cadillac's engine over. "You're welcome to a ride, if you would like one."

I give a small nod and listen to the clicking of the doors unlocking. I open the right-hand door to the backseats and slide in. I look to my clothing, which is now clinging to my skin. Once I close the door, the car begins to move. "Where are you going, honey?" my chauffer asks, glancing at me in her rearview mirror.

"The Super 8 Lawrence Motel," I answer and she nods in return.

After a period of silence, the woman, clearly uncomfortable, begins to speak, "My name is Yvette Hargrove. I'm seventy-four years old. I was married for fifty years. My dear Wesley passed away about six years ago. Being a widow is hard, but I suppose you wouldn't know much about that."

I know that Yvette is equally aware that the story of her life is not important to me, nor does it have any impact on my life; but it seems that the silence between us was far too hard for her to handle. I, however, live my life in total silence.

Before long, the old car sputters to an abrupt stop outside of my temporary residency. I thank Yvette for her services and exit her car. I enter the building, walk past the piggish receptionist (who throws a wink my way) and unlock the door to the twelfth room. The room is bleak and not fancy in any sort of way. The walls are an unfavorable shade of custard yellow and the curtains are ivory. The comforter of the bed has been thinned since its purchase, unwashed and stiffened. The room itself smells of mold and mildew, but I know I cannot afford anything better than this. I move to the black suitcase that rests on the dress across from my bed. I unzip the top and pull it up. The smell of leather overwhelms me when the breeze that has been stowed away brushes along my face. There is a faded and worn brown jacket folded gingerly on top of the other items of clothing I packed for my statewide journey. I have looked throughout the entirety of Kansas, and I have gotten no results. My next step is to move onto the next state. I pull the leather jacket out, shove my arms through it and zip the suitcase once again. The sleeves of the jacket hang off of my arms. It had belonged to my father, but he had given it to me a time before his death. It still smells of his cologne and I am thankful.

I exit the room with the suitcase rolling behind me. I walk to the front desk in order to check out and, once again, I am winked at. With a blank stare, I hand Steve (as it states on the nametag clipped to his shirt) my credit card. He gives me an unsettling, toothy grin and begins to enter my information. "I hope you enjoyed your stay, Miss…" he hesitates and looks to name on the card, "Kelly."

"It was a pleasure," I reply blankly, snatching the card back from his hand and begin to walk away.

"I hope you come again soon, Miss Kelly! I'd love to see you again," Steve calls after me and as I look back, I see his fingers twiddling at me.

I leave the building as quickly as humanly possible, and once I am gone, I can feel a substantial load of discomfort lifting off of my shoulders. I upon my car (a 1956 cherry red Ford Mustang) and get into the driver's seat. I stare at the dashboard, lost in my thoughts before pulling a map out of the glove compartment. I circle my hand around the map (specific for the United States) and set my index finger down in a random place.

My new destination is Greenwood, Mississippi.

I pray that Mississippi has an answer.


	2. Voices

The roads out of Kansas and into Mississippi have been exceptionally unremarkable. The extent of my scenery begins and ends with _cornfields_. All I see are fields after fields of green stalks. As I pass an old, vacant, but presumably in-business shop, I catch a glimpse of my cars' red paintjob. Even while using my peripheral vision, the radiance of the sun reflecting from the Mustang's body is nearly blinding. I am thankful that I am the only vehicle on the road.

With one hand on the steering wheel and the other fishing through the box resting in my passenger side seat; I am searching for one of my various cassette tapes. I grab different names including; _Styx_, _Metallica_ and _Black Sabbath_ before I find the one I was searching for. I slip the cassette, which has 'DOKKEN' written across the white strip in permanent marker, into the player and relax to the beat of 'The Hunter'.

I continue driving along the roads my map has advised me to take. I have read welcoming sign after welcoming sign and I finally spot, "Welcome to Greenwood!" and turn down the road that heads into the town. Oh, and another scenic route – cornfields.

The can feel my eyes growing heavy with sleep deprivation, but I push myself to remain awake. Smacking my cheeks surely helps. When I spot a very small, presumably inexpensive motel and I pull into the lot. I glance around, almost suspiciously, before locking the door to my car. After watching Stephen King's Children of the Corn, I find it difficult to trust those in the rural area.

When I walk inside, I see a young man – no younger than nineteen – sitting behind the receptionist's desk. He looks up to me and gives me a beaming smile. I mentally prepare myself for a pickup line that will range from ridiculously raunchy to ridiculously corny. I am not in the mood for either.

"Hello, ma'am!" he exclaims with a relatively high-pitched tone. A tone you wouldn't generally expect out of a young man – especially in the countryside. However, I understand why I didn't receive any sexual remarks.

Being who I am – and I am not even remotely talkative – I nod to him as a greeting, but it doesn't seem to bother him. It is obvious that he has enough words for the both of us.

"I'm Jamie Kidd," he tells me, taking the credit card from my hand when I offer it to him, "You are – Miss Georgia Kelly! Hi, Georgia Kelly."

I give him a timid nod in return, "Hello Jamie."

"What brings you all the way out to little ol' Greenwood? We don't get many tourists 'round here," Jamie inquires, tilting his head at me.

"It's not tourism so much as business," I reply, glancing around at the décor, "I'm not saying that Greenwood isn't nice, however."

Jamie heartily laughs for a long moment, "That's okay, sweetheart, don't feel as though you need to justify what you've said. There's a reason I told you we don't get many tourists. There is no reason to anybody to come to this godforsaken town."

"I have a reason," I tell him, retrieving my card back from the countertop.

"Not for recreational purposes," he corrects.

I give him a small smile, "We'll see."

Jamie nods to me, and then offers the key to room number for. I take it from his hand and head to the door, unlocking it and heading inside. I take a few moments to look over everything and the room is much homier than I had expected it to be. I take a seat on the bed and admire the room. When my vision begins to blur in and out of focus, I pull a small backpack into my lap, shove my hand inside and begin to look for something. The more time that goes by, I begin to search quicker until I have become frantic. It is not in my backpack.

I stand up, stumbling into the bathroom. I enter and place a towel over the reflective glass before pressing my palms to the surface of the sink. How long has it been since I have seen my own face?

My vision has almost diminished completely and I can feel myself beginning to perspire. I turn the knob to the faucet of the sink until the water is strikingly cold. The world seems to slow as I slip my hands into the liquid. I begin to feel lethargic.

Time begins to slow until the point where I feel as though everything has stopped moving, save for my own body. I cup water into my hands and bring it up to my face – it feels as though there is a five-minute delay. I can feel each individual drop of the substance hitting my skin. The sound of the running water from the sink sounds both loud, but quiet. It echoes as though I am in a large room – every little noise is exaggerated. Am I losing my mind?

I hear each breath that escapes my lips – but it sounds slow, ghostly and echoes in the stillness of the air. My eyes close; slowly; the moment drags on.

I can feel my weight beginning to descend until I collide with the ground. The thudding is quieted, but vibrates against my eardrums. If I tree collapses in the middle of the forest, and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?

After several moments of eerie blackness – of nothingness – my eyes open; only for me to continue seeing the abyss around me. I do not feel cold, but I can see the small cloud of white vapor of my breath hitting the air. This place – this hole is the very definition of alone.

I am, at the very least, thankful at the fact that time is less sluggish, but still leisurely.

I turn clockwise just to see what I believe is my reflection staring back at me. There are no signs of a mirror before me, but I cannot think of a different explanation for this replica. I move my hand upwards and the second version of me copies. It is strange, however, because she is much paler than I am, and she is also wearing a white dress.

I shift my eyes to her feet, but she is not standing, she is hovering. I refuse to believe this is reality, and in order to prove myself true, I move my entire body to the right. Much to my dismay, my replica moves as well. I want all of this to be a dream; I want to wake up now.

"Wake up!" I call out to no one but myself. The replica's mouth moves when mine does. "Come on, you stupid body! Please, wake up!"

I am taken aback by the sudden lack of movement in front of me. I turn my eyes slowly with a paralyzing feeling of fear in my bones. I look to the reflection and her head is tilted, ever so slightly, staring at me. I wave my hand in front of her face, but her arm does not copy my action. She begins to reach forward and I jerk backwards. '_I want to wake up now_,' I think to myself, '_I want to wake up; I want to wake up_!'

My replica begins moving her index finger along the air, almost as if she is writing. I furrow my eyebrows in confusion. The image in front of me begins to grow blurred with white fog. It seems that there was a mirror in front of me the whole time, but I am no longer so convinced. I can still see my clone's finger moving, backwards, along the glass. The writing appears before me; quite plain and in scratched writing.

_'NOTHING THEY TOLD US WAS TRUE_,' it reads, '_THEY CUT THEMSELVES WITH THEIR OWN TONGUES. THOSE DAMN, DIRTY LIARS AND THEIR DAMN DIRTY LIES. THEIR TONGUES ARE DAGGERS. CUT THEM OUT; CUT THEM OUT; CUT THEM OUT. STOP THE DAMN, DIRTY LIES._'

I can feel my body beginning to shake viciously. I am absolutely mortified by the writing, but I cannot seem to move. I am experiencing this fear all over again – a fear that does not simply feel paralyzing, but is paralyzing. The same fear I felt six years ago.

'_TONGUE OF A SERPENT, LEXANNA, HE HAD THE TONGUE OF A SERPENT! SLICK, SMOOTH, CLEVER. OFF WITH HIS HEAD, CUT OUT HIS TONGUE_!'

I cannot understand this cryptic, disturbing message. I rip away from the mirror-like area and begin running in the opposite direction. My arms are pumping and I am running as fast as my legs will allow. I glance up at to see if there is anything besides the blackness, but my demented clone causes me to skid to a stop. "Leave me alone," I yell to her, "Leave me alone, I don't know what you want! I don't understand what you're trying to tell me!"

I slump down and clasp my hands over my ears, even though there was absolutely no sound before I began to scream. Now, however, there is noise. I hear whispering in my ears and no matter how hard I press my palms down, the voice continues to get louder, but it is still a whisper.

_'Robert Johnson_,' it tells me, but cackles a little bit afterwards, '_Robert Johnson at the Crossroads! Robert Johnson on his knees, hands clasped, crying to the Lord! Begging to the Lord of foolish things! Of foolish dreams! 'Fame!' he cried out, 'I need fame!' Yes, he prayed this to the Lord; but the Lord, he did not get_.'

"Stop it," I mutter, holding my hands over my ears, "Please, just stop this. This is all a cruel, horrible dream and I want to wake up. I'm tired of this dream; it should have run its course by now!"

'_Lexanna_…' says a very peaceful voice. I look up, glancing around for the source, and in the distance, I can see a bright, white light. There is something calming about the light and its voice. '_Lexanna, take my hand and you will be okay. Don't be afraid_.'

The light had come closer now and I look up to her, watching a hand reach out from the rays, palm upwards. I take the hand and I am engulfed by warm light. At last, there is peace.

* * *

My peace is does not last long. I am now being violently shaken by frantic hands. "Miss Kelly," the squeaky voice shouts down at me, "Miss Kelly, please open your eyes! Please be okay!"

My eyes slowly flutter open and I look up to Jamie, who looks completely freaked out. His erratic expression causes me to break out into laughter and a puzzled face follows suit.

"What?" he asks, eyebrows furrowed, "What's so funny? I thought you were dead!"

"Your face," I tell him between my laughter, "You looked completely horrified!"

"I was horrified!" he cries out, throwing his hands up, "I thought you were dead – you would have died in my motel! That was a terrifying thought! Excuse me for not looking like _America's Next Top Model_ in a situation like this!"

I sit up and groan at the sharp pain in my head. I rub at the spot and look to him, "Chill out, Jamie, I'm not dead. I'm perfectly alive."

"Well, yeah, now. For all intents and purposes, you were dead five minutes ago," he says and scoffs, crossing his arms. "I hate you."

I exhale and rub my forehead for a moment, "Jamie, do me a favor and call any and all of the nearest pharmacists. I have a prescription I need filled."

"I can do that," he says and stands, then pauses, "What is the prescription for?"

I hesitate for a long moment, "Olanzapine."

I relax when Jamie clearly has no idea what I'm talking about. He walks out of the room and I sit up from the bathroom floor, taking in a slow breath. My mind is crowded with the memories of my moments in the abyss. What was the purpose of my clone's cryptic messages? I still have no idea what those words meant

I crawl up to the bed and sit on the top of the mattress. I close my eyes tightly and try to forget everything I had just experienced. '_It was just another fit_,' I tell myself. '_There was no significance; it was just a fit. A fit because I have no medication. That's all._'

I cover my face with my hands, trying to ignore the words chanting in my brain and in my ears. I lie back on the bed and I stare up to the ceiling – trying to wash away the terror I felt.

'_Robert Johnson_,' I remember the words, '_Robert Johnson at the Crossroads! Robert Johnson on his knees, hands clasped, crying to the Lord! Begging to the Lord of foolish things! Of foolish dreams! 'Fame!' he cried out, 'I need fame!' Yes, he prayed this to the Lord; but the Lord, he did not get._'

Robert Johnson. Why does that name sound familiar?


	3. Fashionably Late

After spending approximately three days, six hours and twenty-seven minutes researching Robert Johnson, I have gathered a small amount of information that I believe will be useful to me. From the information I discovered; I know that the blue's singer had spent the night in Lloyd's Bar before his seemingly overnight success as a guitarist and singer. Conveniently enough, Lloyd's Bar is located within Greenwood, Mississippi – the exact same town I came to in search of answers. _Lucky me_.

As I drive in the direction of the bar, I glance to the lined papers in my other hand and continue to read about my mystery man. Ten odd years later, Johnson was _back _at Lloyd's Bar; playing his guitar when he fled from the main stage and into a small shed behind the facility – where he takes refuge. A woman, presumably his wife, found him choking on his own blood and mumbling about frighteningly large black dogs.

I toss the papers into the passenger seat and sigh in frustration. The information is valuable, but they're just pieces to an even larger puzzle and I'm not quite sure I have the time or patience to try and figure it out. '_I should leave this town to rot_,' I think to myself, but frown at my negativity, '_I have more important things to do – even more crucial information to find._'

I close my eyes for a brief moment before returning my focus to the road. "No," I say to myself, "I can't give up on those who need me – even if there are more important answers for me to find. Besides, this could bring me a step closer _to_ those answers, but it could also bring me a step back. One _closer_, Lord, I beg of you."

Praying to God is useless, I know, but I still find myself doing so. Even while I do not believe in his existence, it's somewhat relieving to act as though I have someone to talk to – someone who wishes to listen to my rambling, but I know damn well that if God truly did exist; He would not care to listen to me. He would have no interest in being merciful on the likes of _me_.

'_Robert Johnson_,' the word creep back into my mind, '_Robert Johnson at the Crossroads! Robert Johnson on his knees, hands clasped, crying to the Lord! Begging to the Lord of foolish things! Of foolish dreams! 'Fame!' he cried out, 'I need fame!' Yes, he prayed this to the Lord; but the Lord, he did not get._'

"Robert Johnson at the Crossroads," I say aloud, contemplating the meaning of the cryptic message, "Robert Johnson on his knees, hands clasped, crying to the Lord… Begging to the Lord of foolish things, of foolish dreams…"

A sense of knowing washes over me, but what I _seem _to know lingering on the tip of my tongue – in a dark crevice of my brain. I shake my head several times and decide to shove the thoughts from my mind. I'm not useful to myself if I remain in a contemplative state for the rest of my stay in Greenwood. "Goddammit," I say to myself, gripping at the wheel of my Mustang, "I _know _that I know what that means, otherwise it wouldn't have told me. Why can't a just _remember_?"

'_Stop thinking about it_!" my mind shouts at me. '_You said you were going to stop thinking about it. You're no good to yourself without any recollections_.'

I take in a slow breath and glance around at my surroundings. I shift my eyes to the map and try to pinpoint my location as accurately as possible. It seems that I am relatively close to town and I am thankful for that. Suddenly, I have to stomp down on the brakes when a black car whips in front of me and continues down the road to my right. I check with the map and confirm that road is the one I need to take in order to get into the town itself, "What an asshole," I mumble to myself as I flick on my turning signal and follow after that car – which has left me in the dust.

I feel my phone vibrating in the pocket of my jacket and I pull it out with a hopeful look on my face. I'm praying that it's my brother or sister, but my conscience knows better than that. The message is addressed from an unknown number and it reads,

'_Connecticut in 2004, remember me? You helped me out, but the problem came back. You need to get me out of here as soon as possible._'

I curse under my breath and toss the cell phone into the passenger seat of the car. Connecticut in 2004 is not something I can think about right now or my head might explode. I feel as though I might explode before I'm washed with relief upon seeing the town. "Thank God," I say aloud. I merge into the turning lane and pull my car into a diner parking lot. I need to eat something before trying to uncover the rest of Robert Johnson's mysterious death.

I go into the restaurant and sit at a table, ordering a hamburger and fries. I pull my phone out again, looking reading through the message from someone I helped in Connecticut. My better sense tells me not to respond to her, but I do, anyhow.

'_I can't come immediately. I doubt I could even come within the next month or so. I'm on a different case and I still haven't found any answers. Let me know if the problem persists. I'll figure something out. Lex._'

I hear a vague voice commenting on my Mustang. I look out the diner window, to my car and towards the source of the voice. I find him – rugged, stubble-chinned and green-eyed. For a moment, my stomach lurches into my throat. I try to tune out the busyness of the diner in order to hear what he is saying.

The nameless face whistles for a moment, "Humor me, Sammy. Don't you want to know who owns that attractive hunk of metal? I sure as Hell do."

The longhaired brunette, apparently named 'Sammy' shakes his head at his companion, "Why don't you ask around the diner?" he responds, sounding a bit distant from the world, "I'm sure you could find out."

"What's up with you?" the other – Dean – responds. "You've been acting weird all week."

"Nothing," the other responds in a brusque voice.

I glance between their faces, studying each of their features before I figure out that they're brothers. I nod to the waitress when she brings my food by, but I continue listening to the conversation between Sam and Dean, but they're no longer talking. Dean is staring out the window, silently admiring my car. I roll my eyes.

"It's nice though, right?" he asks.

"I guess." Sam responds, "It's just a car."

"Just a car?" Dean exclaims, attracting the attention of some of the others in the diner. I bite on my lip to stifle laughter. "It's never _just _a car, Sammy. It's a 1956 Mustang and it's _obviously _been completely refurbished. It has whitewall tires, probably a new engine and it looks friggin' sweet!"

"The refurbishing is _obvious_?" Sam asks, rolling his eyes for a moment.

"That car is fifty years old, Sam," Dean says, staring at him, "If you think any fifty year old car could look that nice without being refurbished, then I have no idea how you ever got into Stanford."

"Not with an excessive knowledge of cars."

I stand up and walk over to the two of them, tilting my head. "I figured I should come over and thank you for being so fond of my car. It's relieving to know that my hard work on it has been effective."

I get an arched eyebrow from Dean. "You're the one who owns the 'Stang?"

"Yes," I respond, furrowing my eyebrows, giving him a questioning expression "Is that surprising?"

Dean purses his lips slightly, seeming to be considering his next few sentences. There is a long moment of hesitation. "Well, yeah, kind of," he says, "It's not everyday you see a girl with a completely pimped out Mustang from 1965, you know?"

"No," I say, "I don't know."

"Well… Chicks aren't really into these kinds of things."

"Uh huh."

He chuckles awkwardly, and then clears his throat afterwards, giving Sam a look of desperation. His brother rolls his eyes, then smiles at me, "Don't mind him, he's an idiot."

"I can tell," I say, grinning slightly.

"I'm Sam," he says, offering his hand, "Sam Winchester."

I stare at him for a moment before taking his hand, shaking it with a brief nod of my head, "It's nice to meet you, Sam, I'm Lexanna."

"I'm Dean," his brother says, looking slightly annoyed.

I look to him, raising an eyebrow, "You're rather unfriendly."

"I'm not a people person," he says with a shrug of his shoulders, "That's all there is to it."

"Neither am I," I tell him, "But I'm still being friendly, aren't I?"

"Sure."

I roll my eyes at him and grab the bag I had sitting next to me at the diner table, "It was so nice to meet you and your chauvinistic ideals. I sincerely hope we _don't_ cross paths again," I tell him, flashing a brief, but cold smile before turning towards Sam, who looks as though she's waiting for me to chew him out. "It was very nice to meet you, Sam. You are actually kind, unlike your brother."

Dean narrows his eyes at me and I flash him a brief, but cold smile and then walk out of the diner and back to my Mustang. I slip into the seat and I exhale slowly. It feels as though my heart is going to pound out of my chest. '_Why do I feel this way?_' I think to myself, '_He's a handsome man, sure, but he's a complete dick._'

I shake my head at my own mind and start the Mustang. I need to focus myself on Robert Johnson and the mission at task. That mission is to find out what was going on inside of my brain.

I pull out of the parking lot and head down towards Lloyd's Bar – it is the only place I know of any answers to be located. As I drive, I see a black 1967 Chevy Impala speed past me. I narrow my eyes and my lips separate in order for my to speak, "Dean," I say – my voice sounding harsh and venomous. "You Winchesters never fail to live up to the shitty reputation you've set for yourselves," I say, shaking my head.

I push my foot down on the gas pedal and my Mustang begins to accelerate. I'm chasing after the Impala when my cell phone starts going off. I sigh to myself and grab it, putting it to my ear, "Talk to me," I say.

"It's me," says the male voice on the other end. "We have business to do, Ms. Chanatry and I'm not going to take no for an answer this time. You're going to come to Colorado or I'm going to make your life a living hell."

"You're funny, Blaine," I say with a humorless tone, "But I don't take orders from you and you're fully aware of that. If you really need my help, you'll call back in a few months and ask _nicely_. I assume it'll be hard for you to learn proper etiquette. Until then."

I hang up the cell phone, shaking my head.

"_Demons_," I mutter to myself.


End file.
